Noble's Way (2 page)

“Good furs, make warm coat,” Spotted Horse said, looking very somber.

Noble checked his gray who was prancing impatiently. He sighed inwardly, knowing they could never use all the buffalo meat. A lot would surely go to waste.

“You want half?” Noble asked.

Spotted Horse nodded. His horse gave a snort that seemed to reinforce his rider's approval of the trade.

“What tribe are you from?” Noble asked. There were women with the other braves which eased his concern. Indians were less likely to use treachery when they had squaws with them.

“Osage. We are plenty peaceful. No time for war.”

Noble considered their situation. They looked peaceful enough, with their women and the small children. According to would-be Indian experts he had known warparties never took their families along.

“Bring me a horse and a pack of furs,” Noble said, feeling the Indian would be disappointed if he didn't bargain.

“You plenty tough trader.” Spotted Horse agreed with a head nod. “Osage poor. No gunpowder for guns.”

That made sense. No gunpowder, no hunting. Lord, he was beginning to think like the Indian talked.

“No stealing from my camp or bothering my woman and boy,” Noble warned, waving the pistol from his lap.

“Plenty good. McCurtain and Spotted Horse be good friends, yes?”

With a wry set to his mouth, Noble nodded. If the Osage were without gunpowder, what could they do? As long as they didn't steal him blind, they could share the heifer with them. But he knew Indians had little compunction about taking someone else's goods. They enjoyed a
what's yours is mine
philosophy.

Noble put the pistol back in his waistband. He signaled for Fleta to come forward.

Spotted Horse smiled broadly. “Bring you horse and furs.”

“Good,” Noble said, still wary of the deal.

Spotted Horse gave a wave to his companions and a loud cheer went up. They left horses, travois and even the small children on the rise. On foot, they raced for the downed animal.

Noble surmised they must be very hungry, because the men were with the women and traditionally the squaws did the butchering. But surely they didn't intend to eat the buffalo raw? Spotted Horse gave him a nod and booted his pony to join the three women and two men.

“Are they peaceful?” Fleta asked, keeping a suspicious eye on the band surrounding the shaggy, brown carcass.

“They seem to be. They're Osage. I traded half the buffalo for a horse and furs.” Noble frowned as he studied them, realizing they were already eating the animal's organs. “They're starving.”

“Can we trust them?” she asked.

“I think so,” Noble said exchanging a nod with Luke and answered the wide eyed youth's unasked questions. “Yes, they're real Indians.”

“What should we do?” Fleta asked.

“Just stay up here. I'm going down and learn all I can.”

“Noble,” she said worriedly, “be careful.”

“I will. I'll be back to unload. You wait here.” Noble rode down the slope to the butchering site.

Two men were with Spotted Horse. One short buck in his early twenties was named Rivers. The other one, Barge Oar, Noble guessed close to thirty. Barge's wife, Otter, had a bad leg.

Spotted Horse had two wives. His youngest, Mary Joseph, was a teenager with a baby. The older woman, dressed in tailored buckskin, was named Mannah. Noble guessed her age as in the late twenties. It was apparent from her striking looks that she was not an Osage, but Noble could not define her tribal origin.

The squaws had the hide peeled off the top side. Noble stepped nearby and took a strip of the loin off the back. With a nod to the women, he started back for Fleta and the boy, leading the gray. This was enough meat for them for the night. He would get more later. Cold as the air was, the carcass would not spoil.

Fleta had built a fire. She took the meat and laid it on her cutting board. Noble did not miss her apprehensive glances toward the Osage. He was glad she had not spoken her thoughts.

As he unpacked his horse, he noticed the Osage had begun a camp not far from Fleta's fire. Mary Joseph sat on the ground, nursing her baby at her swollen immature breasts. The men took up positions on the ground while the other women began cooking.

Noble saw Luke watching everything the Osage did, then returning to ask his mother questions. Noble smiled when he overheard the one about feeding the baby.

Fleta looked up from her cooking. She studied Noble's back as he stacked the pack goods and the saddles. Satisfied that he had the Indians in hand, she still couldn't feel at ease. Fleta felt confused and at the same time awed. They acted so backward. Their dress was a mixture of Indian and white man's clothing.

Finished unpacking, Noble smiled down on her. “That meat will be good.”

“Yes, it will be. Thank you.”

He walked to the Indian's camp, where he squatted down with the men. If necessary, he knew the Colt in his belt would be all he needed.

“Where is your home?” Spotted Horse asked.

“I'm looking for a new one.”

“West,” the Osage pointed. “There is a good place for a white man to winter. You shoot buffalo. Osage do much work. Plenty to eat for everyone. “

“What kind of place?” Noble asked studying their dour faces.

“Big house. Good for white man.”

“Who does it belong to?”

“Long gone. No one comes there.”

Nobel found himself intrigued by the notion. An abandoned place might serve them as a winter headquarters. It probably was a house or structure an Indian wouldn't use.

“You smoke pipe. We make big deal,” Spotted Horse said. He produced a clay pipe and packed it with brown material from a buckskin pouch.

One of the woman brought a smoking stick to light the bowl. Spotted Horse drew hard on the mouth piece, then let a small stream of smoke out of his lips. He handed it stem first to Noble. The strong smoke scorched Noble's throat and he stifled a cough as he handed the pipe back. Spotted Horse gave the pipe to Barge who drew deeply before handing it to Rivers.

“Tomorrow. We will show you the fort,” Spotted Horse promised.

Fort? What did the Osage mean? Reluctant to take another puff of their pipe, yet not wanting to insult them, Noble accepted the totem with a bland face.

When he returned to eat his supper, Fleta quizzed him about the peace pipe.

“Some kind of rotten weeds,” he said under his breath. “They really like it. Kept passing it around. ” He glanced at the setting sun before he cut up the thick browned slabs of meat. They were a day further away from Arkansas and Izer Goodman. Thank goodness.

“Luke's terribly interested in the Osage.” Fleta cast a look at the boy, poised at the edge of the panniers watching the Indians.

“He'll be all right. The Indians say there is place west of here for us to winter in ... a fort with a house.”

“Is the house habitable?”

Noble smiled at her and shook his head. “You know as much as I do. They want to winter near us. They'll do the work for some of the game I shoot.”

Fleta grimaced. “Work? The women will do it. Besides I'm not sure I want to live by Indians. You know about them because you've been allover the west. But I've never seen any like these with feathers in their hair and beads.”

“That's their way. Don't worry.”

Fleta didn't look up from her food. Noble knew she did not agree with his plan.

“Let's look before we pass our judgment. I'm anxious to find a place to stay. It's late December and any day winter could close in on us.”

Fleta blinked at something causing Noble to twist quickly around, nearly spilling his dish. He saw the woman leading the horse toward them.

“What is she doing?” Fleta asked, puzzled by Mannah's approach. When she looked back, Noble seemed occupied with his plate again.

“What is she bringing us?”

“Your furs for half the buffalo.” He smiled in amusement.

“Oh.” If Noble had planned to have Indians around all winter, she would have to get used to their strange customs. She shuddered recalling their consumption of the raw liver.

Noble graciously accepted the horse's lead rope. The skins in the packs probably represented a good portion of the Osage's wealth. So far the Osage were true to their promises.

Dawn came. The light snow Noble had expected for a week frosted the tall grass. Weary and stiff from sitting up under a blanket, he'd only caught brief snatches of sleep to be on guard. Gratefully, he accepted Fleta's tea and oats. The sharp tea helped to revive him.

Spotted Horse came and squatted on the other side of the fire. “We need to go fast. Wind turns, there will be much snow. We need to camp at this place.”

Noble did not question the Indian's weather forecast. He hoped this new place would not be too tumbledown to protect his family. “We'll be ready to travel soon,” he promised the man.

The Osage nodded, pulled his blanket tighter, and went back to his own camp.

Fleta felt the larger flakes melt on her cheeks as she rode. The world seemed to have closed in. She could barely see the Osage women walking beside their travois laden horses. Twisting occasionally she watched her excited son on the pack horse. He was testing the snow in his open palm. His eyes were alive with excitement that escaped her. The Indians obviously fascinated Luke.

Ahead, she could see Noble, his coat speckled with snow, and his hair mussed by the wind. The sight of him was the most comforting part of this move. She was confident Noble would find a place for them before the snow turned to blistering cold.

Fleta mentally calculated the date. It was December 24, 1864, Christmas Eve. She sighed as she glanced down at the swells of the saddle. When she was little girl in Tennessee, the house was always warm and filled with the smell of popcorn and molasses candy on this day. There were always toys to open Christmas morning, usually small animals her father had whittled from wood.

Then Wilbourne Corey had come into her life. The tall quiet man, six years her senior had come to court her. Wilbourne had not been a rake or braggart. Fleta's mother had often reminded her that Wilbourne was serious—a man of substance—he worked hard, and was not inclined to drink heavy or gamble. A pillar of a man, not a man to abandon her. Fleta felt a pang of conscience as she rode. Had she been the one to abandon Wilbourne?

But her mother had not known of war and how it would drag a man away from his wife and son. Wilbourne had ignored her pleas and gone off for a bloody senseless war and left the two of them ... Fleta shivered under her coat. They might have starved if Noble had not come along. Since she'd had no word in three years, surely Wilbourne Corey had died for his cause.

“Fleta?” Noble asked, his gray horse huffing great clouds of steam beside her. “Are you all right? You worry me.” He looked intently into her eyes.

“I'm fine, this snow is upsetting me,” she said with a brittle smile. She watched Noble lift Luke from the pack horse.

“Spotted Horse says we're close to wherever they're taking us. But we need to make camp 'til the snow lets up.”

“But,” she began, her throat knotted with conflicting emotions as she stood beside the horse; her legs weak from poor circulation. “It's Christmas Eve, Noble.”

He blinked and pushed back his hair. “Is it?”

“Yes and I don't have a thing for anyone,” Fleta lamented. How could she make the holiday up to Luke? She practically fell in Noble's arms. He held her tight to comfort her.

“I'll make it up to you soon, Fleta. I promise, ” he said softly, concealing his frustration.

She sniffed and tried to regain her composure. “I'm sorry, Noble. It's the damned snow. Where's Luke?”

“He's right here,” he gestured at his side.

She leaned her forehead on Noble's shoulder. Tears and melted snowflakes mingled on her face. It was the snow that had depressed her so.

Christmas day arrived under a blanket of low and threatening gray clouds. Fleta rose in a flurry of snow flakes that had fallen on the blankets she and Luke shared. Noble was studying something on the horizon, his breath escaping in steamy vapors. Then Fleta saw it, and hurried to stand with him. A small fort on a rise, less than a quarter mile away.

“Is that the place?” she asked through chattering teeth.

“Yes.” He hugged her to his side. “Spotted Horse said it was empty.”

“Who owns it?”

“We do.”

“But what if the army or the owners come back?”

“I guess we'll move out.” Noble twisted her around and put his cold hands to her cheeks and lowered his mouth to hers. His hard eager lips, hungry with desire, warmed her.

She smiled. “We'll call it McCurtain's Fort.”

“All right,” Noble agreed, pleased with her name for the place. “Come on, we need to see the home the good Lord and the Osages have provided for us.”

“Merry Christmas, Noble McCurtain,” Fleta said with a sad smile.

“Merry Christmas, Fleta McCurtain,” he said before hurrying off to get the horses and stock.

She stood alone. In that moment, in the middle of snowy Kansas, she felt that they were married in the eyes of God. Her son and the Osages were the witnesses. Yes, she decided, from now on she would be Fleta McCurtain and never again regret leaving Arkansas.

As soon as he swung off his horse in the gateway, Noble began sizing up the fort. Inside the hewed log post wall was a courtyard close to a hundred by hundred-fifty feet. A post or store was in the center. The leather hinges on the front door were rotten. He forced it open and entered. Although dusty and cobwebbed, the low ceiling caused him to smile. It would be a cosy place to winter.

“Come on in to your house,” he shouted to Fleta, and stood aside to allow her entrance.

Noble left her examining the house. He went to inspect the fort. There were stable sheds built off the side walls. Followed by the silent Spotted Horse, he stopped to examine the stone walled well. He dropped a packed snowball in it and was rewarded a few moments later by the reassuring splash of water.